


Capsaicin

by neversaydie



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Anxiety, Awkward Flirting, BAMF Steve Rogers, Defensive Steve, Fancy Restaurant AU, Food, Food Metaphors, M/M, Mistletoe, Multi, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Panic Attacks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recipes, Self-Esteem Issues, Snark, Snarky Tony, Steve is a Head Chef, Waiters & Waitresses, bucky is a waiter, foot in mouth disease
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-02 11:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5246288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is the head chef of an exclusive, very classy Brooklyn restaurant. It's an awesome job, despite the fact that he has to climb on a box to yell at his staff, but there's one big problem. He can't stand the head waiter and the guy just won't stop flirting with him. </p>
<p>Bucky Barnes is a fucking menace, and Steve hates his guts. </p>
<p>[in which there's restaurant drama, recipes with every chapter, and Bucky and Steve figure their shit out over a lot of food]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entrée

**Author's Note:**

> For Jen, my favourite chef. 
> 
> Pietro's shrimp appetiser recipe is here: https://www.finedininglovers.com/recipes/appetizer/shrimp-recipes-marinated-campari/

"How long on the shrimp?"

"They're usually like a couple inches, chef."

Pietro realises his mistake almost immediately after the words leave his mouth, but silence is descending in the kitchen before he can correct himself. The rest of the staff fail at looking like they're not listening as the chef rounds on his junior and looks up at him, eyes narrowed.

"Get my box."

"Oh shit." Someone comments, quiet and extremely unhelpful in the middle of dinner service. Pietro swallows hard and goes to the large sinks, pulling out the empty apple box and taking it back to the red-faced chef.

"Steve—"

"My. Box."

The little guy isn't backing down, so Pietro reluctantly sets the box on the floor in front of his grease-splattered shoes, upside-down. Steve steps up on it determinedly, bringing him up to eye level with Pietro, who braces himself for what's about to come. He gets the full wrath of chef-on-a-box more than anyone else, and it's never fun.

Steve doesn't disappoint when he explodes.

"When I ask you how long on the goddamn shrimp, I mean how long have you been standing around with your thumb up your ass when I have three tables waiting for their appetisers! I don't mean how many inches bigger than your dick they are!" For such a small, frail-looking guy, the chef has a serious pair of lungs fuelling his dirty mouth. "You've fucked up eight fuckin' times during this service! You're never working fish again, do you understand me?!"

"Yes, chef." Pietro ducks his head and nods, because there's no arguing with the head chef once the box comes out, and he's also given a pretty fair evaluation of his crappy performance tonight.

"One more service like this and you're getting Barton's job." Steve throws the threat around too often for it to be serious, but they're all slightly afraid that one day he'll follow through and actually demote someone to dishwasher. "Now shape the fuck up."

"Yes, chef."

With that, Steve steps down off his box and the kitchen comes alive again. It's all well and good to take a pause for the entertainment of seeing someone get screamed at by an unusually small man on a box, but there are still over fifty covers in the works and every ingredient is too expensive to burn or spoil because they're too busy watching Steve do his best Gordon Ramsey. Some of these dishes cost more than their average rent, although the intimidation factor mostly wore off a long time ago.

The only intimidating thing left in the kitchen is Steve. Who always gets significantly more exacting and irritable when food is sent back to the kitchen. Especially when that food is delivered by the head waiter, who he just happens to have a massive personality conflict with.

Steve thinks Bucky Barnes is a smarmy, greasy jerk, and he stopped trying to hide his opinion a long time ago. After around the second day they worked together, probably.

"I need another filet mignon. Table five says it's overdone." In front of customers, Barnes is the epitome of professionalism and elegance, even managing to make his slick hair bun look classy above his black uniform. In the kitchen, however, he and Steve butt heads like they're in a back alley brawl. He shoves the returned plate unceremoniously onto the serving counter, because he never has any goddamn respect for the kitchen. "C'mon Rogers, this is the second time this week."

"You wanna come back here and make it yourself, asshole? The ticket said medium." Steve yanks the plate through the service window and glares at the beef like he wants to char it with the force of his anger. "That's not overdone. What the fuck does he want, bloody?"

"Hell if I know, he just said it's fuckin' overdone." Bucky peers through the window and smirks at the general mood in the kitchen. "Did you get on the box again?"

"Fuck you." The new filet is already in production, because Steve's team are the best even if he has to kick them into line now and then, and Steve is hot and sweaty and really not in the mood for Barnes' snarky shit. "Tell Nat I'm keeping this back for her when she gets off shift."

"You only bribe her with shit because you want server gossip." He leans on the serving counter, which is violating about five of Steve's strict rules of conduct at once, and pulls out one of his most charming smiles that Steve _knows_ are just produced to piss him off. "How come you never keep fancy shit back for me, huh?"

"Because you're literally the world's worst waiter and I want you to get fired two years ago." Steve huffs, studiously ignoring the way the kitchen staff near him look like they're trying not to laugh. For some reason they find his and Bucky's rocky relationship amusing, in spite of all the broken plates it inspires. "I'll ring the ticket when it's done, there's no point in standing there doing nothing."

"I mean, I do get to look at your ass if I stand here, so…"

"Leave. Immediately." He's pretty sure his face is red again, and Steve points jerkily at the exit without looking up from his plating. If he fucks up these violet petals twice in one day then he'll never hear the end of it from the rest of the kitchen, and he's not going to let Bucky fucking Barnes put him in the pool for buying everyone drinks after work.

It's part of what makes Barnes so fucking irritating to Steve, the fact that the guy constantly pretends to flirt with him in an effort to distract him while he's working. Steve's job is stressful, no matter how much he thrives on the pace and pressure of that hot, cramped environment, and he really doesn't appreciate the distraction while he's dealing with knives that could cut his finger off in a heartbeat. He's got more scars and burns than he cares to count from Bucky's little forays into the kitchen, and he doesn't intend to add to that collection.

And if part of the reason he gets so distracted is because he kind of thinks the greasy bastard is charming and handsome, then he's not going to admit to it. He's too busy for that kind of shit.

The rest of service passes in a tightly-controlled blur. Barton smashes two plates, which the superstitious kitchen crew take as a good omen, and despite a burned finger or two things go as smoothly as they ever do. None of the other dishes are sent back to the kitchen, and at the end of service the manager, Pepper, comes back to let them know that everything was well-received. It's a standard night, and standard is always good in their business because it means nothing went horribly wrong.

The staff stays well past closing, as always. Steve helps the rest of the team get the kitchen straight for the following morning and eats midnight dinner with Natasha, who gives him all the gossip from the bar that night. It's almost two in the morning by the time they shut up shop and all the servers and cooks go home, walking their familiar, hazy routes to bed through the November Brooklyn chill. They could walk home with their eyes closed by the second month on the job, and most of them frequently have. Dinner service is long and arduous, but the adrenaline rush is worth it.

Steve manages to brush his teeth and take a piss, eyes shut against the sandpaper feeling that hours of heat and bright lights have caused. He forces himself to pull his clothes off before he collapses into bed, the smell of old cooking oil clinging to his pillow when he shoves his face into it because he can't remember the last time he had time to change the sheets. He'll probably dream about cooking, he's lived and breathed it for so long that it frequently worms its way into his subconscious, but that's preferable to the other thing he's been dreaming about lately.

Crashing hard and fast, the last conscious thought in his exhausted brain is that he will _not_ dream about Bucky fucking Barnes. He refuses.

That goes about as well as Pietro cooking fish, obviously.


	2. the finest fucking squid foam in all of Brooklyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's tilefish recipe can be found here: http://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1015082-pan-seared-tilefish-with-garlic-herbs-and-lemon

"You've got to admit he's charming, though."

"Fuck off." Steve takes his eyes off his prep work for long enough to scowl at Peggy, which should be enough to let her know he disagrees very, _very_ strongly with her assessment of Bucky fucking Barnes. "If that's what passes for charm in Britain then I can see why you moved here."

"Well, then everybody thinks he's charming except for you, darling. And yet you're the only one he spends any time or energy flirting with." Peggy muses, fingers never stilling on her vegetable prep. It's obscenely early and just the two of them in the kitchen, because the owner is coming by before opening and, of course, wants a tasting menu of the entirety of their new dishes. All ten of them. "Which is a damn shame, because I wouldn't mind a go on him. He looks like he'd be really committed to eating me out."

"You want nine kinds of herpes, be my guest." Steve mutters, dumping shallots into their container, ready for cooking, and moving on to meat. He doesn't understand why the rest of the kitchen seem so fucking _invested_ in Bucky's obviously fake attempts to flirt with him. Maybe they have a pool going on how long it takes Steve to punch him in the face. He'd actually take a piece of that action because it's _never going to happen_.

They do a lot of betting among the staff, mainly because their restaurant hosts a lot of very famous, very badly behaved people who routinely fuck up in ways they're not allowed to tell anyone else about. The rest of the world might not know which actors routinely strike out with their preferred gender and buy the entire serving staff tequila shots in commiseration (Chris Evans, which irritates the fuck out of Steve because people keep telling him that the guy kind of looks like him and that makes the betting about when Bucky's going to hook up with the actor even _more_ annoying for some reason), but the staff at this restaurant do, and they make a shitload of money betting on the outcome.

"I'm glad I have your permission, chef." Peggy sounds suspiciously like she's smirking, and Steve refuses to give her the satisfaction of looking. "No movement on the boyfriend front, then?"

"I don't have time to date." He grumbles back, and it's not even a lie.

Steve has been with _Le Fer_ since it opened, and the amount of blood, sweat, and time he's put into it over the last five years isn't even close to being matched by his frankly excessive pay check. He used to take the occasional day off in the beginning, when it looks like his mom was finally improving since he was making enough money to cover her treatments. After she passed, however, he threw himself into work and hasn't really stopped since. The only reason he even moved back to Brooklyn was to be closer to her, and without her around the city just reminds him of everything he lost when he won the scholarship and moved to Europe. His biggest achievement and regret, all rolled up tight into one neat package of FUBAR.

Maybe he should've stayed a fry cook, that's what he thinks to himself about once a day. Usually when it's four a.m. and he's just woken up from a two-hour nap and can't get back to sleep because he's pan-searing behind his eyes. He has nightmares about dry fish and tough steak and cross-contamination of cooked and raw meat. His kitchen has never been below code, hell, any kitchen run by Steve has always pretty much _set_ the code, but the idea of standards slipping still keeps him awake and dry-mouthed in the early hours after he's been on his feet all day.

Perhaps he should listen to Natasha and take a vacation, maybe he is a little obsessed. But as soon as he lets himself consider the possibility of time off, Steve immediately thinks about having all that time alone with nobody but himself for company and throws the idea out of the window. He really doesn't need to spend any more time inside his own head than he already does.

Work is safe, keeping busy is safe. It's enough for him, right now. His crappy (non-existent) love life isn't a priority.  

"I'm just saying, you're a lovely young man with nobody to spoil you when you get home at the end of the day." Peggy gets this tone when she talks to Steve sometimes, like she's his slightly frustrated grandmother trying to feed him homemade cookies when he's already politely declined them five times. "Anyone would be lucky to have you."

"I don't get home at the end of the day, Peg. I get home pretty far into tomorrow. Then I sleep for four hours and get up and do it again. Nobody wants to date that." Steve finishes filleting the steak and leaves the rest of the dinner prep for when the staff show up. Sometimes he does more of it himself, when he's got a couple of hours free and rattling around streets full of memories doesn't sound appealing, but today he's got bigger things to focus on.

"Does he want to try the tilefish as well? It's not a new dish but we've updated it since the last time he came by. We weren't using radish at all back then." He changes the subject abruptly, because talking about his anti-love life is just serving to distract him from the job at hand. "Can you be allergic to radish? I should call Pepper."

"I'll call her. You'll ask her nine hundred things you don't need to know and get yourself in a tizzy." He wouldn't describe his random spurts of anxiety-fuelled anger _a tizzy_ , but Steve will concede the point. Peggy is better at talking to the manager anyway, they're both good at prioritising and rolling their eyes at the incompetence of the people around them. Plus Steve is fairly convinced they're both capable of murdering a man using only a stiletto heel and a can-do attitude. "Finish up here and then eat something. I don't need your blood sugar fucking up in the middle of service again."

"That was one time!" Steve protests, brandishing his phone emphatically in a way that's made him lose three to the fryer this year alone. "I'm not making your breakfast for you."

"I'm going to Starbucks anyway." Peggy shoots over her shoulder on her way out of the kitchen, just to make Steve hiss at her like a pissed off cat. She knows perfectly well that he'd love to drink cheap sugary coffee with her, if only his stupid taste buds would let him.

His ridiculously heightened sense of taste is exactly why he's got to the level he has in this business, but it makes his life outside of work needlessly frustrating and pumpkin latte-less.

Steve cleans up after his prep work, gets anything that'll take longer than service to bake into the oven, and fixes himself some breakfast. Bland pasta with salted butter melted over it, it's his standard fare whether he's at work or not. He usually eats on the run, not bothering to fill himself up with anything that might fuck up his palate and get his food sent back to the kitchen. Today he eats at the back counter next to the sinks, mulling over his game plan for regular dinner service tonight. He's going to move Pietro to the cold line, because his fuck ups with fish aren't worth the speed of his plating skills. It'll probably ruffle a few feathers in the rest of the kitchen, but it's not like changes to the line-up aren't frequent around here.

He likes to shake things up once in a while, make sure nobody gets too complacent and goes on auto-pilot. Their food isn't standard, their work shouldn't be either.

It's time to prep for the owner's arrival by the time Peggy gets back, latte thankfully not in hand because they're not allowed to bring branded food products into the restaurant, and Steve gets ready. He brushes his teeth three times and changes his shoes before they start cooking, because both his palate and his back have to stand up to this plus dinner service later. It's a physical job, and the amount Steve spends on his chiropractor because of his shitty spine is probably why he's paid so much.

Natasha suggests swapping out 'chiropractor' for 'rent boy' every so often, and Steve is almost starting to agree with her. This dry spell is starting to turn into the fucking Sahara and he could do with blowing off some steam.

Peggy goes through her own rituals, pinning her hair back and carefully plastering up her fingers where they'd picked up a few nicks during yesterday's service. Angie is coming to help them in the kitchen this morning, since everything has to go like clockwork and they'll barely get a break before dinner prep starts, and Steve takes a precious few minutes to mock Peggy for putting on lipstick in honour of the occasion. He knows she has a crush on Angie and they rarely get a chance to be in such a quiet kitchen together, and Steve just hopes their making eyes at each other isn't going to get in the way of this going smoothly.

Of course it won't, he chastises himself for even thinking so almost as soon as the thought forms. Peggy is extremely professional, exactly why Steve hand-picked her as his second in command, and it's not like she's about to skip out for a round of tonsil-hockey when they're under assessment. He shouldn't think that about her, Steve knows that, he's just stressed and hasn't slept enough this week.

The stress doesn't abate once they're informed that Mr Stark has arrived and it's go time. They spring into action as soon as Bucky (and of course it _had_ to be Bucky serving, it's not like that adds to Steve's stress at _all_ ) gives them the word. Stark is notorious for being very easy-going and forgiving, right up until the point he isn't. Once he hits that point, everything had _better_ be perfect and available immediately or people start getting fired. Steve doesn't intend to get fired today, even if he knows it's not logically realistic that he would be.

He and Stark have had an occasionally rocky relationship since the restaurant opened, but they're at the point where Steve comfortably calls him 'Tony' now (to his face, and a lot of more colourful things behind his back). The Stark family are notorious nationwide, having amassed their sizeable fortune in various mostly-legal ways (mostly porn), and in the beginning the restaurant had looked like just another whim of a playboy son out of touch with the realities of the business. Despite an extremely difficult first year and a lot of butting heads between the owner and the head chef, things had taken a surprising turn for the better. Pepper Potts being brought in as manager (and being one of the few people unafraid to tell Tony to fuck himself if he was being stupid) probably had the biggest impact, and things have been getting better and better ever since.

They're one of the most sought-after tables in the city now, and knowing that doesn't help the sweat beading on Steve's temples as he gets the appetisers to the window. He's the best, working at the best, and that means he can't be less than perfect. And if perfection means making squid foam for rich assholes, then he's going to make the most perfect fucking squid foam Brooklyn has ever seen.

"He's not sure about the squid." Bucky lets them know the feedback as soon as he reappears to collect the next dish Stark has asked to taste. "He says the apple is a weird contrast."

"That's all he said? Weird?" Steve is plating his next dish and doesn't bother to look up and let Bucky's disturbingly greasy-handsome face piss him off any more when he's already starting to feel dizzy from the pressure. "Like that fuckin' helps with _anything_. He doesn't know shit about food."

Peggy wisely doesn't say anything as she gets her plate to the window at the same time as Steve puts his up in perfect sync. It gives them a bit of breathing space, at least Steve feels like there's more air once the food is out of his hands and out of his kitchen. They can get through this perfectly, they always do.

Then, out of the blue, everything falls apart. He doesn't know how it happens, but Steve is suddenly alone in the kitchen. Maybe the others ducked out for a bathroom break, he doesn't know, but he's got fish to cook and dishes to finish so he can yell later. He focuses on getting things together in spite of the tension in his chest, pan-searing and plating with the kind of dexterity born of years of practice. He cooks like he breathes.

Until his breath catches in his chest, and then the plate is slipping from his fingers to hit the floor with a loud _smash_. Steve freezes, staring at the mess on his shoes because in five fucking years he's never dropped an entire dish like this. His fingers are numb and he feels like he can't get enough air into his lungs. He needs this to be perfect, how can he fuck up so badly? How could he –

"Steve. Hey, breathe."

The voice that cuts through the anxious blankness of his mind is familiar, and Steve looks up to see Bucky fucking Barnes looking at him through the serving window. The guy looks concerned but totally zen, which is somehow comforting in this situation when it would be totally infuriating most of the time.

"You're doing a great job, okay? The guy is totally happy, can't stop talking about how you're the best chef in New York." Bucky's speaking in measured tones, loud enough that Steve can hear it over the heartbeat thrumming through his head. "You have more fish. How do you prep it?"

"I…" This is totally not the time to have a fucking panic attack, the part of Steve's brain that's still vaguely working screams at him from somewhere in the distance. He knows he gets like this, this is exactly why he goes to the fucking chiropractor and forces himself to sleep and tries to do everything _right_ so he doesn't freeze up right when he can't afford to. And maybe it's the pressure or the tiredness or maybe his fucking horoscope is bad, whatever, but for some reason today everything crashed. Bucky breaks into his thoughts again, voice firmer but still unrelentingly calm.

"Steve. Look at me." He does, and Bucky keeps eye contact like he wants to be a lot closer right now than on the other side of the serving counter. "You're fine. How do you prep the fish?"

"Check for pin bones. Season. Melt butter…" It comes out automatically, and reciting the things he needs to do next seems to kick his brain back online. Steve lets out a _whoosh_ of a sigh like he's been underwater, blinks, and suddenly comes alive again as he hurries to the refrigerator. "Ten minutes."

"Take your time and do it right, I'll stall." Bucky says, like this is the kind of thing they do every day. He doesn't hang around to put Steve off his game further, heading back into the restaurant to flirt or whatever the fuck his definition of stalling is.

Steve's hands aren't numb anymore, and he prepares the food with the ruthless efficiency that makes him a good chef. When Peggy reappears a few minutes later, he even has enough of his brain back online to yell at her.

"Where the fuck were you!?"

"Shit, I go to take a piss and it's World War Three in here." She steps over the mess of fish on the floor with a grimace and what Steve sincerely hopes is a guilty look on her face. "Sorry."

"I don't care, start poaching the pears." Steve snaps, concentrating on keeping his fingers steady and not fucking up a second time. They can talk about it later, because right now he doesn't have the brain space for an argument.

He definitely doesn't have the energy to get his box. Not that Peggy would let him box-yell at her without punching him in the nose, anyway.

When Bucky comes back, a surprisingly punctual ten minutes later, the dishes are plated and ready and, as Steve had made sure, absolutely perfect. He doesn't say a word about Steve's little freak out, but they make eye contact for a second before Bucky nods, whisking the dishes away to the dining room without further ado.

The rest of the service passes without incident (while he studiously refuses to think about the fact he almost had a panic attack at work and how much he needs to _get it the fuck together_ ) and Steve just has time to change into a clean chef's jacket before Stark summons him into the dining room to talk.

For someone who seems to exist exclusively in three-thousand dollar suits, Tony Stark makes a habit of turning up to his own restaurant looking frustratingly smart-casual. Steve smiles politely all the same, because he knows the owner is just trying to get a rise out of him. Stark misses their screaming matches for the entertainment value, he's told him so more than once.

Tony's one of the few people short enough that Steve doesn't have to get his box to be almost eye-to-eye when they yell at each other. It's more of an ego boost than it should be.

"Hi, Tony."

"Steve, good to see you. You're looking remarkably slender for a man who spends all his time eating expensive food on my dime." Tony's handshake is firm but surprisingly not crushing. He has the confidence of someone who knows he can buy the room and everyone in it (as if he didn't already own this one), which Steve guesses kind of negates the need to establish dominance through something as meaningless as a handshake.

"Gotta keep my girlish figure." The back and forth is familiar, and Steve settles into it to try and assuage his fears about the new menu being torn to shreds in front of him. He turns to Pepper with a smile, noting that she's already wearing the impeccable suit that's become her work uniform. "Ms Potts."

"Pepper, Steve. How many times?" She doesn't stand up to kiss him on the cheek, because they work in too close quarters to stand on ceremony like that with each other. She gets straight to the point with none of Tony's endless banter, which is another reason she might actually be Steve's favourite person on the planet. "Long story short, the new dishes are excellent. I have a few notes on the squid and I'm recommending we eighty-six the pears for dessert. It's a little old-hat."

"Yes ma'am." Steve nods without protesting, because if Pepper's approved the decision then it's definitely not just Tony running his mouth to hide the fact he knows next to nothing about food. "Any other concerns?"

"I have a question about the head waiter. James, I think?" Tony glances over to where Bucky is standing beside the bar, talking to Natasha where she's just arrived. "Do you think he's good at the job? He seemed a little laggy today, and since service is the name of the game it's _kind of_ important that he's not."

"Oh. That was my fault." Steve's mouth is moving before he can think about it logically. Yesterday he would have jumped at the chance to throw Bucky under the bus and get him fired, but today he's become uncomfortably aware that the guy is a human being and not just a two-dimensional asshole. "I was fishing for your reactions and I held him up, sorry."

"Less chat, Rogers, more food." Tony clucks his tongue and withers under a pointed look from Pepper. The kitchen staff have a pool going for how long it takes for them to find concrete evidence that she beats his ass in the bedroom, because at this point it's only a matter of time before they have it confirmed.

"You got it." Steve agrees, quietly, and resists the urge to look over his shoulder and see if Bucky is still there.

He needs to pull it together, because he doesn't have time to panic or freak out, and he especially doesn't have time to get weird feelings for his head waiter. He's not letting Peggy win whatever bet she's setting him up to fulfil, no way. She's probably got money on him riding into the fucking sunset with Bucky before the year is out.

He's going to have to demote himself to the cold line if he's not careful. He needs to stop thinking about Bucky _fucking_ Barnes.


	3. butter and olive oil are not acceptable substitutes for lube

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No recipe this time because we're outside the kitchen. However, I will give you my grandmother's tried and tested hot toddy recipe, which is effective against all Winter illnesses:
> 
> Take whiskey, hot tea (or water, or even apple juice), the juice of half a lemon, some ginger if you like, and sugar to taste. Stir it all together and get it down your throat while it's still hot. Guaranteed by hundreds of years of Irish wisdom to cure all that ails you. 
> 
> Happy holidays folks!

"Why don't you just talk to him? Y'know, like a human being?"

Bucky scowls at Natasha under his hair and motions pointedly at his empty glass, not prepared to respond to her suggestion without a fresh drink in his hand. It's after hours, after the restaurant is closed and the staff are at the tail-end of clean-up, and he's very, _very_ unprepared to talk about his ridiculous crush without a decent buzz in his veins.

Natasha, excellent friend that she is in spite of her determination to try and un-fuck Bucky's love life after he's spent so much time spectacularly fucking it up, is kind enough to merely roll her eyes before she pours him a drink. This late at night they break out the decent stuff (at this restaurant, the 'decent' spirits are better than 'the good stuff' everywhere else) and ring it up as spillage, so Bucky takes a long drink of smooth whiskey he wouldn't buy for himself even if he could afford it.

Mr Stark doesn't care if the staff treat themselves (as he tells them, at length, whenever his table is still occupied by himself and several tipsy buddies way after hours and stops everyone going home until the sun comes up) as long as it doesn't eat into their profit margins. And with the insane prices just for the appetisers here, that's never going to happen no matter how much fancy whiskey Natasha pity-pours.

"How am I supposed to just talk to him? The guy hates my guts, he'd probably sauté them or something if he ever got the chance." Bucky mutters, swilling the amber liquid around his glass and wondering how stereotypically down in the dumps he looks from across the restaurant. It's not like he expects Steve to give a shit if he sees him, because he fully believes he'd end up on the menu if the chef had his way.

"Well you'd better figure out how to talk to him soon, I've got two hundred dollars on the two of you hooking up before Christmas." Natasha raises her eyebrows pointedly and leans on the bar, nodding (not subtly enough for Bucky who immediately wants to hiss at her to be discreet like a teenager with a crush) at where Steve is sitting at a back table and eating dinner with Sam. Bucky twists over his shoulder to look (even less subtly, to be fair) and his eyes narrow involuntarily as he turns back to the bar.

Sam. Of course Steve's eating with Sam.

"I've been hitting on him for months, he's not interested." He grumbles, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear where it's come loose from his usual slick bun. He tries to stay looking neat and professional at work, but it had been unseasonably warm tonight and the heat still turned to its usual winter setting. Sweat has made the ends of his hair start to curl, and it's really not a good look. "You should start betting on him and Sam getting together if you want to make some money."

"Sam's straight, you idiot." It's been a long day and a longer night, especially after Mr Stark turned up early for his tasting session, and Natasha sounds particularly weary at her best friend's misreading of the situation.

"How do you know? He could be into guys." Bucky protests, unwilling to admit he's getting jealous over nothing. Sam's cute as hell, and Bucky's pretty sure he couldn't measure up to him if Steve had the option. The guy has a better ass too, Bucky's checked him out on the down low enough times during service.

Their uniform pants are pretty tight, it's not _entirely_ his fault.

Natasha, with the patience of someone explaining something very obvious to a small child, leans forward on the bar and smiles indulgently in the way that Bucky knows means she's three seconds away from flicking him between the eyes.

"I've had sex with him five times since September. He has a very nice dick." Her smile turns into a smirk at the gobsmacked look on Bucky's face, because she always plays her cards close to her chest and this is a surprise she's been waiting for a special occasion to drop on him. "I don't think he's into guys."

"Is his dick nicer than mine?" Bucky asks, faking being wounded by the suggestion. The last time he and Natasha hooked up was back in high school, and being a closeted as hell teenager he hadn't exactly been outstanding in bed, but he'd tried his hardest. Natasha still makes fun of the face he made the first time he saw a vagina _to this day_.

A cross between a meerkat and concerned puppy, apparently. It had been a very shocking experience.

"It's more interested than yours." Natasha snorts, and Bucky bumps their fists together with a tiny grin.  

"Thanks for sparing my feelings. Subtle." He pretends to pout for all of five seconds before he's back to trying to catch sight of Steve in the mirror that hangs behind the bar. He's not stupid enough to crane over his shoulder, not every single time at least. "Doesn't change the fact that Chef Rogers is a hundred percent not into me."

"Bucky, why do you think he's so mad about you flirting with him?" Natasha has a slightly exasperated tone in her voice, because Bucky is occasionally (frequently) exceptionally dense when it comes to all things love and romance. "You're practically pulling his pigtails and pushing him down on the playground."

"So… he does like me?" Bucky puzzles out, slowly, and Natasha looks like she's really close to grabbing him by the ear and dragging him over to Steve herself.

"All I'm saying is, he's really mad about you flirting with him all the time. Like, too mad for him to not care about it. You just need to get your shit together and talk to him." She raises her hand in a gesture of taking herself out of the conversation (because Bucky's ridiculous love life is only her problem half the time, usually the half after a relationship breaks down and there's a lot of ice cream and booze involved) and goes to finish cleaning up before she can finally go home for the night.

"That wasn't helpful!" Bucky calls after her, despite the fact that she's already disappeared into the back room and probably can't hear him behind the heavy, decorative door. He sighs quietly and reaches over the bar to grab the bottle of whiskey, figuring the no-self-service rule can be bent after hours.

The truth is, he had kind of started flirting with their head chef as a reflex. Whenever Bucky feels awkward or shy around someone, especially a guy, he tends to fall back on cheesy pick-up lines to try and dissipate the discomfort of the situation. _Especially_ when he has a crush on the guy, just like the one that had slammed into him like a sledge hammer the minute he laid eyes on Steve Rogers. He's been doing it since he was a teenager, out at school and pre-emptively defensive about being the only gay kid in his class, and it's a difficult habit to break.

Bucky has exactly zero idea how to actually, sincerely, tell a guy that he likes them and maybe ask them out on a date. His past boyfriends have been guys he picked up in clubs and who hung around in the morning, or extremely poor choices of guys who thought Bucky was a fixer-upper they could change for the better. Like Alex, the older Wall Street guy who treated Bucky like a prince for exactly three months before he figured out that he wasn't going to let him do half the kinky shit he'd been planning on. Or Drax, the tattoo artist who said about three words the entire time they were dating and split the moment Bucky tried to talk about their feelings.

As much as Bucky does his best to come across like a slut who doesn't give a crap about what anyone thinks of him, what he really wants is someone to come home to and cuddle up with at the end of a long shift. He's slightly embarrassed by his very domestic wishes, so he tries extra hard to keep that soft shit buried down deep. It's not like it's going to happen when he can't even talk to a guy without being awkward or trying to suck his dick, anyway.

And then there's Steve. Bucky wouldn't say he has a _type_ , per se (Natasha would, because she's seen him kick enough cute blonds out of his apartment to feel very confident saying that), and he definitely hadn't expected to get a crush on his boss when he'd _promised_ himself this job would be different (he may or may not have left his last position under mysterious circumstances, possibly preceded by an inadvisable blowjob given in a very inadvisable location). Steve's personality doesn't exactly jive with Bucky's, he seems wound tighter than a spring whereas Bucky tries to blow off steam and not take work too seriously all the time, but there's something about him barking orders at everyone in the kitchen that kind of… does things for him.

There's the eyes too, there's something about the fire behind those blue eyes that makes Bucky shiver all the way down to his toes. Steve usually blows him off or replies to him over his shoulder when Bucky flirts with him in the kitchen, and he's only slightly embarrassed about how much the thought of having the full intensity of those eyes on him makes his stomach twist.

"Uh, I thought Natasha was around." Bucky is jerked out of his brooding by the familiar voice that speaks up behind him, calmer and quieter than he's used to hearing it. He twists around to see Steve standing a little to his left, looking almost hesitant in contrast to his usual radiation of confidence.

"She's in the back." His mouth replies automatically, his brain way too busy staring at Steve to form a coherent thought for a long moment. The guy looks tired, but he holds himself like he fully inhabits his small body all the way down to his toes, and the blond hair starting to curl at his temples from dried sweat is, oddly, extremely appealing.

"Are you, uh, feeling better?" Bucky breaks the awkward silence between them, clutching his worryingly-empty whiskey glass like a shield or maybe a lifeline. His internal voice (that sounds way too close to Natasha's most frustrated tone for comfort), warns him to _not be a dick and fuck this up now he's actually talking to you_ , and he clears his throat self-consciously. "I mean, after, uh…"

"I'm fine. Thanks." Steve cuts him off quickly, the tips of his ears turning pink. He still feels acutely embarrassed about the incident, but he figures Bucky deserves him to at least address it enough to thank him. To Bucky, it just looks like he's reluctant to bring it up. ""Thanks. For helping me when I… had a moment. For staying so calm and stuff."

It's clearly a struggle for the chef to admit to weakness like that, to stoop low enough to thank the guy he clearly can't stand, and Bucky feels a little bubble of warmth in his chest when he's touched by the gesture.

Of course, his mouth manages to fuck things up immediately. Apparently it can do that even without a dick in it.

"Calm? I was fuckin' terrified." The emphatic response is clearly not what Steve had been expecting, and he's obviously taken aback by the naked emotion in Bucky's face. The words kind of bubble out without Bucky's explicit consent, because if he's honest with himself then he had been internally panicking when he saw Steve losing it. Not that he's supposed to _tell_ the guy that. "What am I supposed to do if my chef goes blue-screen in the middle of service? I was freaking out."

No wonder Natasha says he's hopeless.

"I'm so fuckin' sorry for inconveniencing you." Steve glowers, hot as coal, and Bucky tries very hard not to get defensive under the glare. He was just being honest, apparently that's supposed to be a good thing when it comes to talking to guys he likes. He's not listening to Natasha at all anymore.

"I didn't say that, I was just—"

"Will you just tell Nat I've got dinner for her in the kitchen when she's done?" The walls of snark seem to be firmly back in place again, and Bucky's face momentarily falls when he realises he's blown his chance. Within a second though, that easy smile he falls into instinctively is working its way back onto his lips. It's self-defence, so automatic he can't stop the mechanism once its wheels are in motion.

"See, how come you never keep rich people food back for me?" He downs the rest of his drink and smirks at Steve's scowl to hide the fact he wishes they were talking to each other like _people_ , as his friend had so eloquently put it. He leans back against the bar like he doesn't have a care in the world, because that's easier than admitting he does. "I'm your knight in shining armour here."

"You should be fuckin' thanking me asshole, I saved your job today." Steve is still looking at him with a face like thunder, and Bucky's even more convinced that Natasha is totally wrong about the guy secretly liking him back. All he can see right here is intense dislike, which isn't the best feeling in the world.

He thought he'd enjoy having the intensity of those eyes turned on him outside the kitchen, but he figures there needs to be something less caustic than hate behind them for it to be as pleasant as he's imagined. And what the hell does Steve mean, he saved his job?

Not that Bucky actually asks him, because apparently he's an _idiot_.

"I can think of a few ways to thank you, chef." He winks, flirty autopilot, and it's only the way that Steve's cheeks take on an embarrassing flush of colour that makes him think he might not be _totally_ barking up the wrong tree. "You've gotta have something back there that'll work as lube, right?"

"If you ever put butter or olive oil anywhere near your asshole then you're stupider than I thought." Steve looks positively scandalised by the suggestion, and he turns on his heel and stalks off back towards Sam before Bucky can even give a witty comeback because, come on, food as lube is kind of hilarious. At least it would be if he had an audience, anyway.

Bucky watches the tiny chef's retreating back and sighs, reaching back over the bar for the bottle of good whiskey he's been steadily stealing since he sat down. Perhaps the best thing to do is just get over his ridiculous crush on Steve, because it doesn't look like anything's ever going to happen between them at this rate.

Or, he thinks to himself (another very inadvisable decision), he could always try and recruit the rest of the serving staff into changing the chef's mind about him. That sounds like the kind of idea that Natasha wouldn't shoot down before it was even fully out of his mouth. It even sounds sarcastic in his head.

Bucky's not opposed to that, he decides as he swallows his drink and starts to plot things out. Sarcasm is pretty much all he has going for him when it comes to Steve right now, so he might as well try and use it to his advantage.

After all, what could possibly go wrong?


	4. an extremely gauche glowing snowman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a pink cocktail recipe seems appropriate for this chapter: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/529665606153371985/

The holiday season is the busiest time for the restaurant. There are various peaks throughout the year, graduation season and Valentine's Day two of the major ones, but the Christmas period is definitely when they're most slammed. Couples in love trying to have a nice dinner away from the pressure of their jobs, large families getting drunk and airing their grievances all over the dining room, the extremely wealthy old lady who comes in on her own and treats Natasha to dinner every year. It's a mixed bag of people who all, of course, have their own exacting standards and individual needs that have to be met, without fail, every single time.

Steve tells himself that's the biggest reason why he's grumpy as fuck instead of getting into the holiday spirit. His head waiter mysteriously not hitting on him anymore has nothing to do with it. Not at all.

"Dude, I saw the box in my dream last night."

"Seriously?!"

"It was like the worst nightmare I ever had."

The whispering between Pietro and Clint falls silent under Steve's most withering glare as he stalks past them into the kitchen. He's late for prep, for probably the second time ever, and he refuses to feel bad about it because he stayed late last night to handle a flour mishap that wasn't even his fault. He had to stay late to start the marinated slow-cooked hams they're featuring as their Christmas menu main, anyway, so an extra half hour wasn't all that much of a hardship. It's a little low-brow for them, but everyone loves tradition at Christmas. Even when it's a twenty-dollar meal dressed up to over two hundred.

When he gets to his locker and shrugs off his jacket to hang up (red, soft leather, his one big indulgence from the pay check he mostly saves because it's not like he has any free time to have stuff to spend it on), the first weird part of the day happens. Steve stops in his tracks when he opens his locker and finds the whole thing bedecked in tinsel and glitter, a battery-powered glowing snowman sitting right in the middle of his stuff. An extremely _gauche_ glowing snowman at that.

"Barton." He mutters to himself, refusing to acknowledge that the snowman is cute as he switches it off at the base and moves it aside.

Then the plot thickens.

"Where the fuckin' shit is my fuckin' jacket?!" He brandishes the cheap Santa Claus costume in one bony fist, face and ears as red as the cheap faux fur in his hand. The lurid picture makes the kitchen grind to a halt, all eyes turning curiously in his direction. "I'm not wearing this!"

"I don't know, it really brings out your rage spots." Peggy is the only one who dares to speak up, trying not to crack a smile as a few nervous giggles sound from the rest of the staff. "Was there a note with it?"

"Why the fuck would there…" Steve trails off, realising that she said that _way_ too knowingly and grabbing the tag on the sleeve of the jacket that he'd assumed was a price label. The tag says, in neat block capitals _WEAR ME ALL SERVICE = NO CLEAN UP DUTY FOR 1 WEEK_. He looks up and finds the rest of the kitchen watching him in suspense now, trying to look like they're not waiting for his reaction with bated breath.

"You fuckin' assholes." He drops the tag with a scowl, and this time there really is a smattering of laughter around the kitchen because they know the difference between Steve's murder face and Steve's 'pretending to be ready for murder' face. He looks Peggy in the eye and glares accusingly. "No clean-up for two weeks and you take two days a week of my prep."

"Done." She smirks triumphantly and points to the bathrooms. "Go get changed, Mr Claus."

"You're all getting fuckin' fired." Steve mutters, stomping reluctantly into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. He pretends not to hear the laughter and heated discussions around money changing hands as he pulls the stupid jacket on and tries not to wonder just how much the synthetic fabric is going to itch during service.

He also studiously pretends not to notice that the costume is in a child's size. His patience is already thin and he's going to have to find some chill if he wants to make it all the way through this service without blowing a fuse.

Everyone is surprisingly mellow about his reappearance, possibly because they know they're likely to get _actually_ fired if they make too big of a deal out of it. Steve gets to prepping the mains and only has to yell a few times to get the rest of the kitchen's focus totally back on track. Things are actually running smoothly enough that he almost forgets he's wearing a fucking Santa outfit in the middle of December in a goddamn professional kitchen.

That is, until Bucky _fucking_ Barnes decides to show up at the service counter and ruin _everything_. As usual.

"Hey, can you maybe sous vis the chicken tonight? We got it back twice yesterday for dryness."

"That's because our good friend Pietro was plating mains last night and decided to leave things under the lights while he fucked around with dressing." Steve shoots Pietro a glare, who makes a sheepish face and waits until the chef's back is turned to give him the finger. Steve is too busy staring Bucky down to notice. "Are you really gonna come back here and tell me how to cook?"

"Nah. I just heard it on Hell's Kitchen and thought it sounded fancy. Did I use it right and impress you?" Bucky smirks, leaning over the service counter (and _how many times_ has Steve told him not to do that) and looking Steve up and down with a barely-concealed leer. "You're looking gorgeous, Chef."

"Fuck you." Steve sincerely hopes his face isn't red enough to match his _stupid fucking_ Santa jacket, and tells himself that the heat in his cheeks is just from the lights he's standing near to plate. He's going to be able to make it home at least an hour early for two weeks if he leaves this on all service, that's what he keeps reminding himself.

Although, with Bucky here he's suddenly not sure if it's worth it. The fact the presence of the most irritating waiter ever throws him off is actually bothering him more than the jacket, if he's honest with himself. He really shouldn't care this much about what _Bucky_ thinks of him.

"Can I sit on your lap and tell you what I want for Christmas?" Bucky leans even further over the counter and Steve swears that if he gets his ass grabbed while he's holding a very sharp knife then he won't be held responsible for his actions. The fact that there's part of him that's really not opposed to Bucky grabbing his ass is irrelevant. "I've been awful good this year."

"That was terrible, did you rehearse that?" He twists around to look at him and catches Peggy exchanging a glance with Bucky as he does. Steve narrows his eyes as he catches on to what that conspiratorial little exchange meant and rounds on Peggy, this time. "Did he put you up to this?"

"What? No. Of course not." Peggy's most innocent face is very convincing, that is if you don't know her as well as Steve does. And if Angie isn't trying and failing to conceal her giggles right behind Peggy's back while she's supposed to be concentrating on pastry.

"Stressing me out by being a douchebag isn't enough for you?" Steve turns back to Bucky with anger flashing behind his eyes. For a minute there, when Bucky had actually spoken to him like a human being after work the other day, Steve had thought there might be some potential there for something that wasn't conflict. Apparently he was very mistaken. "You've gotta humiliate me as well?"

That certainly wipes the smirk off Bucky's face. Steve almost thinks he's handsome when he looks regretful, but he quickly lets his rage stamp that feeling out.

"That wasn't… It was just a joke, man. Holiday spirit and shit. I didn't mean it like that." He sounds remarkably like a chastised child for a grown man, ducking his head sheepishly when he realises Steve is actually pissed off. Steve finds the reaction oddly satisfying.

"Just get the fuck outta my kitchen." He grunts, turning back to his work and feeling oddly disappointed in this turn of events. It's not like he doesn't think Bucky is an asshole with a serious mouth on him, of course he does, it's just that Steve had almost started to enjoy their terse back-and-forth. It was almost nice to get flirted with sometimes, even if it wasn't sincere, but trying to humiliate Steve in front of his staff is too far over the line for it to be harmless banter.

Maybe a traitorous little part of him is disappointed. Maybe things could have taken a turn for the better at some point. Not that anything like _that_ ever happens to Steve.

"Hey, Steve. Uh, Chef. I'm sorry." Bucky actually sounds sincere, for once, and that's enough to make Steve glance over his shoulder to receive the apology. That is until he sees the mistletoe that Bucky's holding up over the counter between them with a smile (not a smirk, maybe actually a little vulnerable at the edges, but Steve must be imagining that because it's _Bucky_ talking to _him_ and nobody's ever vulnerable when they're talking to him). "Lemme kiss it better?"

"D'you know how many health codes you're violating?" Steve gives Bucky his best unimpressed face, pursing his lips to try and shove down the weird leap in his stomach that's _stupid_ and shouldn't be there and means he really needs to get laid sometime because his body is starting to look at this asshole as a viable option.

"That's not a no, Chef." Bucky's smile picks up a little strength when Steve doesn't reject him outright. Steve rolls his eyes and turns away again, because he really doesn't want to get fucking red again when he knows half the kitchen is low-key watching their interaction for gambling purposes.

"Get out." He points without looking, his signature move, and decides to act like he doesn't see Peggy giving Bucky a thumbs-up before he finally leaves. She's probably just got money on Bucky not getting punched before New Year or something, that must be it.

It's not like someone would be stupid enough to bet on Steve's love life taking a _positive_ turn. Especially not with _Bucky_. Maybe if he keeps the stupid jacket on all service then he'll get enough time off to finally go on a date and kill the betting pool dead in its tracks, anyway.

He keeps the jacket on all service, but he still doesn't go on a date. Just because he's taking the extra time to sleep and finally clean his apartment, that's all, not because of _Barnes_ and his fucking mistletoe. Definitely not.

*

When the Christmas party finally rolls around, two days before Christmas Eve and the only night Mr Stark agreed to let them close for dinner (he did provide all the drinks for free, so he's not exactly a Scrooge), Steve is so, so ready for a break. He's got cuts on six of his fingers, burns on both arms, and a badly bruised thumbnail after a memorable run-in with a pasta maker. Everyone has got slightly clumsy from exhaustion (with Clint sporting a hefty bandage on his forearm after an incident with a very sharp cheese grater, which they're taking as good luck just like his usual dish-breaking), and it's a huge relief to be able to close after lunch and break the cheesy Christmas music out.

Natasha refuses to bartend, so Sam is pitching in and filling up wine glasses about as fast as people are drinking them. Beer is bottled and recycling bins shoved right next to the bar, because nobody wants to collect that many extra glasses, and Christmas fizz is strictly serve-yourself from the buffet table. The kitchen staff may have started with shots directly after their last cover, because they're notorious for playing as hard as they work, and Steve is pleasantly tipsy before he even gets to pouring himself a drink.

He looks the provided food over suspiciously (not too suspiciously, because for all the shit he gives Pietro the kid is a good cook and he and Angie had volunteered to cater the party this year) as he pours himself a glass of something pink and fizzy. His tolerance isn't great, given his overall size, but that doesn't stop him from downing half the glass before refilling it again and sipping more slowly this time. He's earned the opportunity to cut a little loose, and he's not going to be _sensible_ when he doesn't have to.  

"Gonna leave some for anyone else?" Who should appear at his elbow but Bucky _pain in his fucking ass_ Barnes, looking way more handsome than he has any right to with glittery tinsel wrapped around his head like an Alice band. Steve doesn't think he's ever seen Bucky with his hair loose before, and he's only partially sure it's the alcohol that's making him look quite so stupidly angelic in the low light.

"No." He sticks his tongue out petulantly (only a _little_ drunkenly) and smiles into the rim of his glass when Bucky laughs out loud. "I'm gonna drink my weight in pink stuff and Nat's gonna carry me home. I've had to put up with your ass all year and I fuckin' deserve it."

"You could've done more with my ass than put up with it." Bucky seems pretty tipsy himself, leaning on the table in a way that's way too measured to be anything other than forcibly casual. He watches Steve out of the corner of his eye for a minute before he speaks again, definitely forcing himself blurt out the words. "You know I like you, right?"

Steve looks at him steadily while he takes another sip of his drink. This is a new step-up in the dating pool's efforts, maybe there's money on them getting together before Christmas and Bucky's taking drastic measures to try and win some of the cash.

"Yeah, okay." He nods dryly, obviously not believing a word Bucky says. Bucky groans and scrubs a hand over his face in an uncharacteristically clumsy gesture, which Steve totally doesn't find endearing at all.

"I mean it. You're like, you're really cute and you're an amazing chef and you're super cool…" He trails off from his mealy-mouthed confession when Steve laughs to himself, put out by the interruption. "I'm serious!"

"Where's the mistletoe, Romeo?" At least he doesn't look like he's about to punch Bucky in the nose when he produces the sprig from his back pocket. It gives Steve some extremely inappropriate thoughts about what his mouth could do if he was near Bucky's ass, which he's blaming entirely on the alcohol. The mistletoe has been a permanent feature since mid-December, and Steve just knew it was in the vicinity.

"I gotta be prepared, right?" The smug look is tempered somewhat by uncertainty, and for a moment Steve could even believe that Bucky is actually nervous about this. It's more likely he's nervous about losing his betting money, though.

"You and that goddamn mistletoe." Steve grumbles, sounding a little less pissy about it than he had at the beginning of Bucky's kiss-seeking adventures, which Bucky takes as a positive sign. Or maybe they're both just loosened up by the booze, either way is good. "If I kiss you, will you stop?"

"Maybe. Yeah, promise." Bucky beams, trying to keep a lid on how hard his heart just flipped over and promptly went to kick him in the guts. "I'll even kneel down for you."

If he could just. Once. Keep his mouth shut.

"God, you're an asshole." A dark cloud descends over Steve's face and he turns to stalk away to nurse his wounded pride, but Bucky takes a chance and reaches out to grab his arm. It's an unprecedented move, but even if he gets punched for his trouble then he has to try.

No alcohol clouding judgement here. Not at all.

"Wait, I'm sorry." He's had a few drinks himself, so he's not sure just how tongue-tied he sounds when Steve relents and turns back enough to hear what he has to say. Damn Natasha and her bullshit ideas about honesty, this shit is difficult. "I kinda got a case of foot-in-mouth disease. I didn't mean to be a dick. I really do like you."

"You're always a dick. You sure you never mean it?" Steve shoots back, although he's not pulling away this time. Bucky looks totally flustered and embarrassed, and he's almost ready to believe that the awkwardness is genuine. His traitorous lizard brain thinks it's adorable. "Are you really about to swallow your pride for a peck on the cheek?"

"Well… I _was_ kinda hoping for the lips." There's a shred of the cockiness back in his voice, and Steve grabs his collar just to shut him the hell up.

Steve goes up on his toes and drags Bucky down to meet him. They're both slightly nervous and all the proportions are out of whack, but the moment their lips touch Bucky absolutely melts. He stops resisting the pull and his hands flutter uncertainly before they settle on Steve's waist. It feels like forever and all of five seconds until they pull apart, and Bucky's pretty sure he's found the place he wants to stay for the rest of his life because he never wants to stop kissing Steve.

Steve swallows and forces a smile, because it'd be a great kiss if it had meant anything but someone winning a bet.

"Not terrible." Steve assesses, cheeks flushed and lips shiny in the low light. For the first time since they've met, Bucky is speechless. "Maybe you could use your mouth for something better than talking, once in a while."

"Um. Yeah. Totally." Bucky croaks, voice cracking awkwardly, as Steve turns and walks away, heading for Natasha and hiding his smirk behind another sip of his drink.

He might regret it in the morning along with his hangover, but at least he finally got Bucky _fucking_ Barnes to shut up.


	5. don't make me turn this car around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a recipe for reasons that will become clear: http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/2396/dads-special-supper

"I'm attracted to you."

"My foot is attracted to your ass."

Since Bucky _finally_ got a kiss out of Chef Rogers (and like, seriously, the best kiss of his entire life. He could write sonnets about those soft lips and that slender waist, and according to Natasha he pretty much has already because he can't stop fucking talking about it and _it was five fucking seconds James I'm trying to change a barrel here can you help me or fuck off_ ), he's changed tactics. Now, instead of cheesy one-liners and terrible puns, he's moved on to relentless honesty delivered at what he feels are opportune moments.

The trouble is, Steve treats him pouring his heart out exactly the same as the bad pick-up lines: with scorn.

Bucky's confused by the reaction, to be honest. He'd thought they'd hit some kind of breakthrough at the Christmas party, that his drunken confessions of like (not love, he's not twelve, but definitely _like like_ ) had landed where he meant them to, but ever since then Steve has been even more stand-offish than usual. Even if the guy thought Bucky was fucking around to start with (Clint and Natasha had, unknowingly, been mutually dared to go on a date with each other last year. They'd gone on five dates before they figured out what the fuck was going on and split the prize money fifty-fifty), surely he must realise that Bucky's serious by _now_? He's not even kidding around anymore (mostly, can't change the habit of a lifetime), he's legitimately telling Steve that he likes him.

This is why Bucky hooks up in clubs and doesn't fucking date. It doesn't seem to matter what he does with his mouth, it always backfires unless he has a cock in it.

"Aw c'mon, Chef. You sure your dick doesn't want a piece of the action too?" He leans on the serving counter and cocks his head smugly, because he knows it pisses Steve off and that's at least _some_ reaction. "I'm sure he'd like me, y'know? I can be real friendly to dicks I like."

"I've heard." Steve fires back, drily, and Bucky's taken aback for a second (because come on, he's at least tried to keep his sex life out of Steve's eyeline) before he catches Clint trying to sidle out view of the narrow service counter window.

He might have fucking known.

"Barton!"

"I thought it might, y'know, help your case if you could prove your… skills. Like a resume." Clint offers sheepishly, looking very much like he'd rather disappear under the mountain of pots and pans he has to wash before service than keep having this conversation. "I told him it was a dare!"

"You made me look like a whore!" It wasn't even like the dare was his idea. Peggy challenged them to a double Seven Minutes in Heaven at her birthday party last year, and you can get a lot done in fourteen minutes if you try hard and believe in yourself.

"You are a whore, man." Clint points out, and Bucky can see a couple of the kitchen staff trying not to laugh because nobody understands the word _eavesdropping_ in this place, and this was _not_ how this particular encounter was supposed to go. It's not like he's ashamed of his whorish tendencies, but he's pretty sure Steve won't be impressed by them.

"That's not the… it was a dare." He fixes Clint with his best _shut your fucking mouth_ stare, and his friend gets back to his job with a hangdog expression before he can say anything else to scupper Bucky's chances at love.

At _like like_ , not love. He's not going to love a guy who barely seems to tolerate him half the time, he's made that mistake before and doesn't intend to again.

"That's exactly why we're never going on a date." Steve mutters, just loud enough for Bucky to hear over the noise of the ovens and fridges and general conversation, and that stops Bucky right in his tracks. Steve knows he's not fucking around anymore, doesn't he?

"What? Why?" Bucky leans over the serving counter and actually pokes Steve in the shoulder to get him to look at him. Steve whips around with murder on his face, and Bucky's pretty sure he just crossed a line that would get anymore else the box-yelling treatment. "Why won't you let me take you out?"

"You ever thought that maybe I don't fuckin' like you?" He pulls his shoulder out of Bucky's reach testily, but his voice isn't as harsh as it could be. Bucky's heard worse from Rogers on an almost-daily basis, that's way too tame to be real.

"If you really don't like me then I'll back off, I'm not an asshole. Not a _total_ asshole." He glares at Clint again before he can make the biggest mistake of the day and interrupt again. "But you're the one who kissed _me_ , pal. So why are you being all hard to get now?"

Steve frowns at him for a long moment, before sighing audibly through his nose and yanking off his apron to toss on the nearest counter. That's _unheard of_ sloppy for Chef Rogers, and Bucky's slightly afraid he's about to finally get punched in the nose by five-feet-five-inches of pure rage. Instead, Steve jerks his head towards the back supply closet and marches off, clearly expecting Bucky to follow him.

The rest of the kitchen are watching him now, some reaching for their wallets in anticipation of various parts of their bets being settled, and Bucky scowls at them all expansively.

"Not a fuckin' word." He grunts, before making his way around the counter and quickly following Steve into the back.

Pietro was clearly the last person in here, because the stockroom is definitely below Chef Rogers' meticulous standards of organisation right now. It's mostly large boxes of dry goods and various kitchen items back here, pans that only get used for large batches once a week and holiday cookie-cutters, and Steve has to kick a misplaced box of tinfoil rolls out of the way to make space for them both to stand inside with the door shut.

It's close and dim under the energy-saving bulb when the door closes, and Bucky starts to sweat. Partly because of the temperature, but mainly because this is the closest he's physically been to Steve since they kissed, and he can't tell if something good or bad is about to happen to his dick in the close quarters. From the look on Steve's face, he'd put good money on the latter.

"You know, I've been asked out as a joke before. I've been asked out on a dare and to win a bet, but nobody ever took it as far as you." He doesn't even glare at Bucky, just looks weary as he meets his eyes and folds his arms across his thin chest defensively. "So okay, it ends now. What the fuck do you want? Why are you doing this?"

"I… I want to take you out on a date." Bucky can't help looking at him like he's crazy, totally taken aback because really? Steve really thinks he has an ulterior motive when Bucky's done nothing but basically humiliate himself in front of the kitchen for _months_ now in the hope of scoring a date. "I'm doing it because I like you."

Steve just stares at him, cheeks hollow in the dim light making him look more angular than usual.

"You like me." The level of scepticism in his voice is unbelievable, like he can't even conceive of the idea that Bucky might ask him out for real. He almost sounds sarcastic, and Bucky has no idea where he's gone so fucking wrong to be misinterpreted _this_ badly. "Genuinely."

"Uh, _yeah_! Obviously!" Bucky gestures extravagantly in his frustration, almost knocking over a precariously-balanced box of dried seaweed in the process. "What did you think I was doing?!"

"I thought you were… y'know, making fun of me."

That takes the wind out of Bucky's sails, because it sounds like Steve really thinks that's a possibility. He's seen the guy run a kitchen in the middle of dinner rush without breaking a sweat, he's seen him pretty much have a panic attack and come back swinging moments later, so why the fuck would _that guy_ be afraid of being asked out as a joke? Who would even try?

"Why the fuck would I make fun of you by asking you out?" He asks, quieter and less forceful than before. He'd never considered that being a possibility, because he'd figured Steve was beating guys off with a stick when he wasn't spending all his waking hours at the restaurant. The guy is gorgeous, as far as Bucky's concerned, what the hell?

"People do that." Steve shrugs, like he's resigned to it and it's no big deal. "I'm an ugly little angry man, nobody asks me out unless it's a dare or something. Forgive me if I'm sceptical when a guy everyone wants to fuck starts paying _me_ attention."

"Steve, those people must be fuckin' idiots. Like the dumbest alive." Bucky's urge to punch Steve's lips with his lips to prove he's fucking _perfection_ is strong, but he holds back because he's not sure it would be a welcome advance at this point. The least he can do is tell him straight out, which he's been _trying_ to do for ages now. "I flirt with you because I think you're hot, asshole. You're handsome and cool and I'm like, super intimidated by you at the same time as I kinda really want you to fuck my face. I _told you_ that at the Christmas party."

"I thought you were drunk."

"I was drunk! Why the fuck d'you think I had the balls to talk to you without shitty pick-up lines?"

"So… You actually like me. To the point where you're nervous to talk to me. Which is why you've been a walking sexual harassment case for the last six months." Steve squints at him slowly like he's still not convinced this isn't an elaborate joke on Bucky's part. " _That's_ what's been happening."

"Yes!" Bucky nearly yells, because for the love of _god_ he needs to catch a break here.

"Huh." Steve nods, like he's thinking it over, and then nimbly squeezes past Bucky to get out of the stockroom before Bucky knows what's happening.

What the actual fuck.

"Hey!" He catches up to Steve just outside the earshot of the rest of the kitchen, who are watching their interaction with interest now they've re-emerged. "So? Are you gonna let me take you out or not?"

"I'll think about it." Is he trying not to smile? Bucky's totally out of his depth _again_. "I've gotta get dinner prep finished, so…"

"Are you being _coy_?" Bucky's suspicions are confirmed when the corner of Steve's mouth twitches up in what looks like an involuntary crack in his composure. "Oh my god. You're being coy. You're the worst."

"I thought I was handsome and cool and _like super intimidating_." Steve quotes back at him, stooping as low as doing a sarcastic voice to imitate him, and Bucky tries really hard not to blush. Those intense blue eyes he likes so much are crinkling up at the corners, and it makes his stomach clench to realise that Steve is being _affectionate_.

"I take it all back. You're terrible." He ducks his head slightly to break Steve's gaze, and it somehow feels like surrendering. He doesn't hate it, but he kind of hates it. "You're really not gonna give me an answer?"

"I told you I'd think about it." Steve heads back into the kitchen, looking back over his shoulder at Bucky with an expression he can't read. "Don't you have work to do? Y'know, stuff that involves shittily waiting on tables and not staring at my ass?"

"I hate you." Bucky calls after him, giving the kitchen at large the finger when he realises most of them are still watching him for a reaction. He stomps back into the restaurant before he reacts further to the money changing hands over his love life, because maybe he can wheedle Natasha into pouring him a sneaky shot before service to avoid hearing all the tragic details.

This is _exactly_ why he doesn't date. Bad for his liver.

Service that evening is even busier than usual, two huge family tables running the service staff ragged with exacting requests and food allergies at one, endless bottles of wine and raised voices at the other. Bucky has to bring back four dishes to the kitchen when their recipients aren't totally convinced they're garlic, mushroom, or onion free, and duck into the back to change his tie after the drunken father at table five gestures too vigorously while giving a toast.

By the time he's bringing back the _fourth_ allergy-suspicious dish, he's about ready to throw in the towel on the entire day.

"He's not convinced the tartlet's onion-free." He doesn't have the energy to hit on Steve or make a sarcastic comment as he drops the dish off at the pass. "Can you double check the next one?"

"Five minutes." Steve looks slightly concerned, at least sympathetic, when he catches his eye, but Bucky has to hurry back to the dining room before he even starts to try and unpack that.

Guys are complicated, he finds anonymous drunk sex so much easier than _feelings_.

"Pietro, make absolutely sure this do-over's onion free. If this comes back again you're getting demoted to dish-washer." Steve sticks the ticket up and passes the plate over. Pietro's helping Bruce on pastry today, Steve likes to move him around because the kid has potential and he wants him to pick up as many skills as possible.

"Sure, Dad."

The busy, boiling kitchen goes silent in about three seconds flat. Pietro just looks around at the sudden quiet with confusion, clearly not realising what he's said.

"What?" He frowns incredulously at the team, because they've all got that anticipatory look on their faces that means a new meme is about to start.

"You called Steve _Dad_." Angie laughs, breaking the seal on giggles spreading around the rest of the kitchen.

"No I didn't!" He squeaks, face burning under the attention because he _definitely_ realises he did. It only makes the giggling increase, and Steve pulls them all back before they get behind in the middle of an already difficult service.

"Alright, alright. Back to work." He yells, getting most of them back in gear. Despite wanting to maintain his intimidating reputation, he can't resist following up, only a little more quietly with "Don't make me turn this car around."

Pietro groans loudly, bent over an oven, and the rest of the team crack up again. Memes start easy and last _forever_ in the kitchen, like the time Steve 'Gordon Ramsey' Rogers told Peggy to 'watch her fuckin' language' and got a swear jar shaken at him twelve times a service for the next month, and this one isn't going away any time soon. Steve expects to receive at least one _Number One Dad_ badge by this time tomorrow.

By the time Bucky comes back for his redone order a few minutes later, the atmosphere in the kitchen has noticeably lightened. He smiles tiredly as he leans over the pass, violating so many health codes as usual.

"What's going on?"

"Pietro called Steve 'Dad'." Peggy fills him in, much to the kid's disgust. Steve tries to hide his smirk and fails miserably, even as Pietro whines a protest.

"I did not!"

"Aw, Stevie." Bucky puts a hand to his chest, faking like he's wounded, because he's about to get back on top in their little game. "I thought I was the only one allowed to call you Daddy."

He expects a pithy comeback to that, as does anyone else who's paying attention, but Steve just casually looks up from his plating and raises his eyebrows seriously.

"You're asking for a spanking, young man."

Bucky's face turns redder than his crimson tie, and he stutters for a second before grabbing his orders and leaving the kitchen as quickly as possible. It's hard to juggle plates with a sudden, inconvenient boner. Steve turns back to his work with a sly smirk, because isn't _that_ interesting? He's put up with a lot of shit from Barnes lately, he's not going to let him off the hook and admit he might accept going on a date that easy.

Bucky's been messing with him for so long, maybe he deserves to get a little messing right back. It feels like the start of a whole new game, and Steve intends to have fun with this one.


	6. in case you didn't know not to get sushi from the mall, here's your proof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a much less pretentious version of Steve's mushroom and sausage ragu recipe: http://www.delish.com/cooking/recipe-ideas/recipes/a13595/mushroom-sausage-ragu-recipe-fw1010/

 

"So, Peggy's out with food poisoning until the end of the week. In case you didn't know not to get sushi from the mall, there's your proof."

It's not the most inspiring pep talk Steve's ever given the kitchen team, but it might be the most practical. Peggy's going to be out for two nights at least, maybe into next week (and Steve could have done without the details, but unfortunately they have the kind of friendship where _coming out like lava_ is acceptable chat), and they're all going to have to pull together to fill the gaping hole she leaves in the kitchen. In that spirit, Steve adjusts his _World's Best Dad_ badge (courtesy of Barton, probably, and Pietro turns a satisfying shade of pink every time he looks at it) and gets to rattling off instructions about the new specials. It'll be tough to run them without Peggy, because they work together so well they don't have to communicate much verbally anymore when they're in the flow of service, but they can do it. He has faith in his team.

And, well, there's always the box if they need a little encouragement.

He briefs the servers immediately after the kitchen staff, because he likes to give them as much time as possible to memorise the numerous, obscure ingredients and processes that go into their dishes. Steve pointedly ignores Bucky Barnes' existence while he does it, which clearly bothers the waiter to the point he actually fidgets with his notebook and starts whispering at Sam (and isn't that sweet). Ignores him until he accidentally stumbles on the opportune moment, of course, because Steve's been getting really good at this whole _messing with him back_ thing and it's immensely satisfying when something lands just right.

"The polenta with mushroom and sausage ragu needs to be served delicately, otherwise the deconstruction will be totally ruined and it'll look sloppy." Steve raises his eyebrows pointedly until he has Bucky's full attention from where he had been scribbling a note in Sam's notebook. Barnes straightens up sheepishly once he realises he's been caught, and Steve has to swallow about five naughty schoolboy fantasies at the look on his face. "You got that, Barnes?"

"Uh, yes Chef." He clears his throat awkwardly, because he clearly has no idea what Steve just said. Steve sighs expressively and Bucky has the decency to look embarrassed when that gets a laugh from some of the other servers.

"I said, can you remember to handle my sausage carefully? _The_ sausage, I mean." He corrects himself at the slip, which is actually an innocent mistake, but Sam's already covered his mouth to try and smother his giggles and Bucky is turning red right before his eyes. He can work with that. "If you get rough with it it'll just collapse, understand?"

"I dunno, Chef. Sausages can usually handle a little rough treatment, in my experience." Bucky tries to counter, managing not to stutter this time and looking very pleased with himself when he delivers the line smoothly. Steve just looks back at him incredulously, because he should know he's not going to get the upper hand back at this point.

"Well, you _do_ have experience." Steve mutters, and Sam snorts out a very unattractive laugh that he just can't contain. It would probably be pretty easy to fry an egg on Bucky's face right now. Perfect. "Just be extra careful with the specials, guys. We're short-staffed in the kitchen so quality control might take a little longer than usual and I don't want things sent back because you couldn't handle the sausages, right?"

There's a chorus of _yes, Chef_ along with a few muttered innuendos that Steve studiously pretends he doesn't hear, so he dismisses the servers to get ready for the dinner rush. Natasha has been hanging around at the back of the group, trying to avoid being asked to do anything, and she comes over to talk to Steve as the rest of the staff disperse. She's been kept updated at every stage of the Rogers-Barnes shitshow, especially the new development of Steve turning the tables and flirting back in his own way, which has left Bucky completely bewildered because it didn't immediately lead to fucking. Which _she's_ been getting the brunt of his whining about, of course.

"Did you put a sausage dish on the menu just to fuck with Barnes?" Her tone doesn't quite hit judgemental, but it's not too far off. More amused than anything else.

"How dare you, Nat. I'm a consummate professional at all times." Steve puts a bony hand delicately to his chest, like he's _offended_ by the very _suggestion_ , but Nat's expression says she's not buying a second of it. He might smirk, just a little bit. "I mean… not _totally_ just to fuck with him. That actually didn't occur to me until just now, but it's a happy accident."

"You really need to get laid." She rolls her eyes, because these two are fucking _ridiculous_ and she's going to lose money in the betting pool if they don't pull their heads out of their asses soon. She's not losing a bet to _Barton_ , she'd never live it down. "You're setting up subconscious sausage puns."

"I told you, I don't have time to get laid." That's his story and he's sticking to it, even if the prospect of letting Bucky suck him off in the supply closet might be looking increasingly attractive recently. He's supposed to be _professional_ at work, and he's trying to keep it that way.

There's also a small, insistent, self-critical part of him that still doesn't quite believe Bucky's not going to stop giving a shit about him as soon as they hook up. It might be hard to keep playing the game and not jump his head waiter's bones, but at least it means their weird relationship isn't over.

"Starting to look like you need to make time." Nat nods over at Bucky, who jerks his head around fast enough to get whiplash when Steve looks his way because _no_ , he wasn't staring at his ass. Not even a little bit. "Or you're gonna be down a head waiter with priapism. And don't tell me you're not about to give yourself carpel tunnel over this bullshit."

"Can we have a minimum of comments about my masturbation habits in the workplace? Please?" He tries to make a swift escape back to the kitchen, but of course Natasha follows him because she isn't about to let him get away that easily. Not when she's got a hundred bucks in the mix.

"I don't know, Angie said she saw you looking _pretty interested_ in a cucumber the other day."

" _Nat_. I swear to god." Steve scowls daggers at Angie as soon as they walk into the kitchen, not that she looks even slightly ashamed of herself. He's losing his touch. "You're fuckin' fired, Ang."

"Sure, Chef." She snorts, not even pausing in her vegetable prep. There's a hell of a lot of sass flying around in here lately for Steve's liking, maybe he needs to get tough on his staff and get a little respect back.

Although he can't remember the last time he _wasn't_ tough on them, so he's not quite sure what to do about that.

Dinner service is extremely stressful that night, to absolutely nobody's surprise. It's way too hot in the kitchen and even Steve is sweating hard enough to make his hair drip. Things are always overheated back here and the recent heatwave isn't doing anything to help. Add that to the fact they're down a sous chef and they've got two parties of twelve in back to back (one of which consists entirely of actors and actresses on extremely specific diets, and if Steve has to special-order boil another serving of chicken and broccoli he's going to fucking _scream_ ), and tempers are wearing thin before the starters even fire.

The whole kitchen takes the full force of their head chef's temper tonight, but things get especially focused on Pietro because the kid just doesn't seem to be concentrating. He fucks up three plates of salad in a row, then when Steve moves him onto plating mains his hands are shaking so hard he splatters dressing all over the first plate and ruins that too. They don't have time for this kind of shit tonight, and Steve doesn't even think before he tears the kid a new one.

"Were you born this stupid, or did your Mom drop you on the head as a baby?" He grabs the plate away and slams it on the edge of the garbage to toss the ruined food. Pietro flinches away from him, but Steve doesn't even notice in the adrenaline of the situation.

"Sorry, I—"

"You _want_ to piss me off tonight? Are you trying to get fired? There are a hundred idiots just like you waiting for a job here, so if you don't wanna do your best then there's the fuckin' door!" He leans up and gets in Pietro's face, jabbing his finger at the door and freezing when he sees Bucky standing at the service counter.

Steve suddenly feels stupid, like that small, angry, ugly little man he saw himself as until Bucky acted like he was crazy to ever think that. His chest feels tight and despite the heat he feels cold all over when he realises he's taken out his frustration on this kid. He should've—

"I'm sorry, Chef. I'm sorry." Pietro stutters out quickly, ducking his head and standing there trying to hide his face for a second. Steve catches the twist in his expression before the kid cracks and takes off, hurrying through the kitchen to the back and slamming the door of the supply closet behind him.

The kitchen has gone very quiet behind him, and Barton looks like he's barely controlling his temper when Steve gets a look at him. He's started to wonder if there's something going on between his most promising young chef and the dishwasher, but now isn't exactly the time to be thinking about that. It'd just be nice to know if he was going to get broken crockery in his locker, that's all. Because he's just made the kid fucking cry in front of the whole kitchen, and…

 _Peggy_ would know what to do in this situation. Steve, on the other hand, has no fucking idea. Then Bucky catches his eye and inclines his head slightly towards the supply closet, and it's enough to snap Steve out of his stillness and back into action.

"Alright, show's over. Get the fuck back to work or I'm getting the box." Steve snaps, clenching his jaw and shoving the ruined plate into the sink on his way past. Of course he's following Pietro to the back storage, despite the fact he's probably going to make things nine-thousand percent worse, because Bucky fucking Barnes gave him a nod.

That's it, his sexually frustrated insanity has hit critical mass. He's officially going home and hiring a fucking hooker.

The storage closet is even hotter than it was last week with Bucky, and Steve steels himself before closing the door behind him once he steps inside. The light hasn't been turned on, so he tugs the cord to activate the weak bulb and bites back a sigh when he gets a look at the mess he's caused.

"I'm really sorry, Chef." Pietro is sitting miserably on a box, sniffling and trying to get himself under control so he can go back to work. His knees are pulled up to his chest and he must be desperately needing to comfort himself to take that sweltering position willingly. It breaks Steve's heart a little, because he can remember crying in the bathroom of a three Michelin star restaurant in Paris, right after he qualified, because he dropped a plate and got screamed at and he'd just got a call from his Ma that morning to say she was going in for more tests and… it was just too much.

Nobody had come to find him then, and he figures at least he's _trying_ to do better now, even though this was his fucking fault in the first place because he didn't _think_.

"It's okay, everyone has off nights." He folds his arms for lack of knowing what the hell to do with himself. He's always been notoriously bad at dealing with feelings, his own and others'. It was easier when he was on the bottom rung of the ladder, when he just took the brunt of the frustration and didn't have to worry about the impact of dishing it out. "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. We're all stressed tonight, it's not your fault."

"I keep fucking up." Pietro's breath hitches and he sounds like he's riding right on the edge of breaking down into full-blown sobs. Steve's gut twists guiltily and he really, really hopes that doesn't happen. "I-I want to do my best, I just…"

"Listen, kid." Steve sits down on a box of dehydrated cabbage opposite him, even though they're practically eye-to-eye when he's standing up, because it seems like there's been a wire crossed somewhere here. "You've got the potential to be a brilliant chef, but you're not motivated. You're lazy and you're sloppy and half the time you just plain fuck up 'cause you're not paying attention."

"Is this supposed to make me feel better, Chef?" Pietro might have got himself together a little, but now he looks like he's about to cry all over again. Steve swallows a groan of frustration, because it seems like Bucky's foot in mouth disease is becoming contagious. He's not exactly used to comforting people. He's starting to think he had the ability knocked out of him a long time ago, somewhere in between Europe and his Mom and twelve-hour shifts.

Doesn't mean he's lost the ability to try, though, even if he fucks up.  

"What I mean is, the only reason I'm so hard on you is because you're _good_ , okay? I want you to be great, because you _can_ be. That's why I come down harder on you than some of the others, because I'm not gonna let your potential go to waste if there's anything I can do about it, understand?"

"You really think I'm good?" The kid's eyes are wider than Steve's ever seen them, a little swollen but finally dry, and he thinks maybe he needs to let his team know they're doing well a little more often. He has been all stick and no carrot lately, maybe being too tough is the problem.

"You're damn good. Don't make me say it again, I'm gonna ruin my reputation." He pushes himself back up off the box, fighting the urge to groan as his stupid spine pops painfully. Maybe he should see his massage therapist instead of that hooker. "Take a minute and go wash your face, then get back into the kitchen. We need you, kid. I need you."

"I promise I'll do better. I won't let you down, Chef." Pietro unfolds himself from his uncomfortable perch and gets up slowly, looking at Steve like he's got a goddamn halo shining behind him. It reminds Steve, a little uncomfortably, of what being that young and desperate for praise is like, and he twitches a smile before he holds his hands up and tries to maintain his grouchy persona.

"Good. I'm not gonna hug you, don't need you imprinting on me like a baby duck."

"I mean, you're already my Dad, right?" The tentative joke settles a little of the guilt in Steve's stomach. He had his share of hard bastard head chefs when he was coming up, but he never wanted to become one for someone else. Nat and Peggy might be right about getting out of the kitchen sometime.

"And you didn't even get me shit for Fathers' Day. I gotta get some better kids." He gets soft enough to pat Pietro on the shoulder (and the kid looks like he's just about died and gone to heaven at that bit of approval, he'd better not fucking tell anyone), before he opens the door again. "Five minutes, Maximoff, or you're grounded."

Steve pauses in the hall between the kitchen and the back of house, catching his breath and letting his head fall back against the wall as he cools off. He'd intended to spend the evening cooking some great food and trying to give Bucky inconvenient boners when he got the chance, not comforting a crying teenager in a closet. A teenager he _made_ cry by being an overworked, overstressed asshole who doesn't know how to feel anything anymore without lashing out.

Maybe he doesn't need a date with a massage therapist or a hooker to get some of the pent-up energy out of his system. Maybe he just needs a _date_.

"Hey." A voice jerks him out of his head, and he looks up to see a pink-faced, sweaty Bucky poking his head around the door from the kitchen. He's breaking about three health codes just being in there, but Steve doesn't give a shit because he's so _happy_ to see him, suddenly. Bucky's forehead is creased in worry, tendrils of hair sticking to his temples even as he swipes his sleeve to wipe them away. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Steve sighs, knowing he sounds totally unconvincing and not really giving a shit to do anything about that. "Hey, what you doing after work?"

"Drinking, sleeping." Bucky shrugs, little crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes when he squints at Steve in the dim hallway compared to the overly-bright kitchen. It's something about that look that seals the deal for Steve, makes him think maybe he can relax the game, just for now.

Bucky might turn him down, might laugh in his face, but Steve dregs up the last of his confidence, takes the chance, and bites the bullet anyway.

"You wanna get a drink with me tonight, maybe?"

Bucky fucking _beams_.


	7. I love my dads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello hello it's been so long but these assholes are back and more stupid than ever. thank you for your patience, I hope you enjoy!

"Well, this is…"

"Awkward."

"I didn't say that," Steve shakes his beer bottle distractedly, listening to the liquid slosh inside and wishing he had something else to do with his hands. He's kind of already regretting this.

He and Bucky had ducked out early from clean-up, to a soundtrack of wolf-whistles and lewd comments Steve would have grabbed his box over if he wasn't so nervous, and headed to a nearby bar for drinks. The place is pretty busy, considering it's a Friday night, and the atmosphere is rapidly sapping Steve of whatever energy he has left after two lengthy shifts. It's been a very long time since he actually did something after work that wasn't going home and collapsing into bed as quickly as possible.

Bucky, on the other hand, is a ball of nervous energy – fiddling with a napkin and rolling his beer between his palms, jigging his knee on the stool opposite in a way that sets Steve's teeth on edge. It's weird to be sitting down together – not trying to do a million things at once and passing each other in the process – and the conversation so far is… stilted. Steve doesn't think they've actually spent this much time face to face before.

"It is kinda awkward, though," Bucky kind of smiles in a way that says he'd been expecting it. Which is news to Steve, because he knows he's awkward, but he hadn't expected smooth-talker Barnes to feel the same way. "I'm not really good at… this."

He gestures at the situation, at the whole sitting down together and actually talking like adults about stuff. A loud table nearby breaks into raucous laughter at that moment, and Steve feels like the universe is definitely trolling him now.

"I figured. You seem more like a hasty goodbyes the morning after kind of guy," he puts a hand over his eyes when Bucky looks somewhat offended at that, not even trying to suppress his groan. "Sorry. I'm shit at this too and I've been fucking up all day."

If he's the one who fucks this up by shoving his foot in his mouth, he'll never live it down.

"How did it go with Pietro?" Bucky doesn't call him out for being an asshole, which Steve feels is probably more than he really deserves.

"Alright. I gotta remember he's just a kid, sometimes," he sighs, taking an absentminded sip of his beer. The light is dim in here and it's a relief on his sore eyes after the relentless neon glare of the kitchen (and has the side effect of making Barnes look way too handsome for his own good). "Are him and Barton a thing, by the way?"

"Yeah, since like… October," Bucky laughs at the bewildered expression that information inspires on Steve's face. Weirdly, it doesn't feel like he's mocking him. Steve's not sure what to do with that. "You are not observant, man."

"Oh yeah, because you're so good at reading people, Mr 'I flirt by pissing people off'," he snipes back, which brings them onto more familiar territory and doesn't do anything to affect Bucky's humour.

"Hey, the first time I ever worked service was in a place like this. You pick up reading people fast. Like, uh…" he looks away from their table, scanning the bar before inclining his head slightly towards an unassuming guy in khaki pants two tables across. While Steve's offended by the man's fashion choices, he can't see anything that would lead him to Bucky's conclusion. "He's not gonna tip."

"That's a shit superpower," Steve observes drily, which makes Bucky bark out a dorky laugh of surprise. It's very much unlike his usual persona, and is both endearing and makes Steve wonder what he's really hiding under the facade. "How can you tell?"

"He's got that look," Bucky gives the guy another once-over and nods, satisfied with his ocular pat-down. Steve is somewhat angered by how good he looks while doing so - he's not entirely convinced this evening isn't going to end with one hell of a hate-fuck, which isn't exactly what he wants. "He's gonna leave one of those fucking bible verses that look like money, I bet you."

"No betting tonight," Steve snorts, because he's had enough of that for one day with his asshole staff and their relentless gambling over his (lack of a) love life. Bucky smiles in a way that says he knows exactly what Steve is thinking, and the silence that falls between them is significantly more comfortable this time.

At least, until that makes Steve itchy and he decides to ruin it.

"So you are good at reading people, huh?"

"Gotta be in this job." Bucky shrugs, taking a swig from his beer and looking slightly pleased that Steve thinks he's good at something. It's kind of cute, not that Steve will admit that to himself. "It's the difference between a living wage and not making rent. Or at least it was before I ended up at Le Fer, Stark doesn't stiff us on wages before tips."

"I mean… if you're so good at people-" this could come out really wrong, and after what happened with Pietro, Steve takes his time to phrase it carefully "-How come you fucked up trying to talk to me for so long?"

Well. There was an attempt at phrasing it carefully, at least.

"I dunno," Bucky shifts in his seat with a spark of anxious adrenaline. It intrigues Steve as much as it somehow annoys him that the guy is choosing his words so carefully. If he's working this hard to not piss Steve off, what must he really think of him? "You make me nervous, I guess."

"Yeah, you said that," he looks at Bucky closely and he squirms like he's under a microscope, tucking his hair behind his ear with a hint of shyness which Steve doesn't entirely understand. Self-doubt is starting to creep back in after his earlier burst of confidence in asking Bucky on a date, and he's starting to find it hard to believe Barnes actually likes someone like _him_ all over again. "I just don't get why."

"I… I guess it's like you said, I'm good at reading people but I'm not good at reading you," his tentative expression falls when Steve looks annoyed by the assessment, and he scrambles to explain himself. "You're just different, y'know? You're not like everyone else."

"I'm weird," Steve summarises, raising his eyebrows. Bucky sets his beer down a little too hard on the table, because _how_ is he fucking this up when he's trying to be genuinely complimentary for once?

"No, that's not what I… God, you're sensitive," he scrubs a hand over his eyes in frustration, which doesn't soothe Steve's mood any when he's already got his defensive hackles up. He's not _sensitive_ , he's just learned from experience how to read between the lines. "You're just… changeable."

Of course, that doesn't go down any better.

"You mean bad-tempered."

"Jesus Christ," Bucky sounds frustrated now, which is strangely reassuring to Steve. Someone being annoyed with him is much more familiar than them genuinely liking him, and pushing Bucky into being pissed off seems to confirm his expectations. Nobody likes him when they have to spend this kind of one on one time with him, why would Bucky be any different? "I mean I find it hard to predict how you're gonna react to stuff. Like right now."

"How am I supposed to react to you saying I'm bad-tempered and weird?" Steve doesn't know why he keeps pushing it. Maybe to prove to himself that Bucky's assessment is correct, that he really is that angry little man who's fundamentally unlovable. That even Bucky, who likes him enough to go on a date, has to push past Steve's flaws to tolerate being around him.

The idea that it's just his inner monologue making him feel that way doesn't occur to him, of course, because brains are rarely that helpful.

"You _are_ bad-tempered and weird. But I _like_ that," tripping over his words, Bucky looks like he's torn between shaking Steve and storming out, which is familiar ground. "I'm trying to tell you I like you, how are you not getting that? I was so bad at flirting because I didn't know how to make you understand I'm actually into you, and apparently I still don't."

"Sorry I'm so fucking dense and _such_ hard work," scowling, Steve gets off his stool and fumbles for his wallet, throwing a couple of bills down on the table. He's too tired for this. Bucky looks bewildered and irritated, which Steve figures is about right for the end of a date with someone he apparently finds barely tolerable. "Thanks for the drink."

"Are you seriously mad at me for telling you I like you?" Bucky blinks, raising his hands in disbelief and calling after Steve as he stalks off. "How?! What the fuck did I do this time?!"

What could have been the triumphant resolution to months of tension ends with Steve falling asleep alone, angry with himself and Bucky in equal measure and feeling like he deserves it. Bucky spends the night propping up the bar, stumbling to Natasha's apartment at closing and filling her in on the details with drunken weepiness before passing out on the couch.

Steve grumbles about the non-date to Sam before opening the next day, feeling justified in his indignation until Sam sums up the interaction with _"So he told you you're unique and he likes you in spite of the fact you're an asshole… and this pissed you off because...?"_ and he realises, oh fuck. He's done it again. He's sabotaged himself _again_.

Bucky shows up late and hungover, and doesn't speak a word to Steve all service that isn't work-related. Things don't improve from there.

 

It takes approximately two weeks for the rest of the team to get thoroughly sick of the new status quo.

The interaction between their chef and head waiter had been amusing to watch, sure, but they'd always assumed Bucky and Steve would get their shit together eventually. This new situation - in which Steve gets on the box almost daily, and Bucky moves listlessly through shifts without flirting or so much as joking with anyone - isn't how they saw things panning out. Playful, good natured sniping has turned into plain exchanging insults, and the toxic atmosphere is starting to bring everyone down.

One night, when it's hot in the kitchen and freezing outside and it feels like every second cover comes back for some reason or another, they've had enough.

"Table six wants this redone," Bucky shoves the plate onto the pass like he couldn't care less that he nearly knocks over the garnish box in the process. "Potatoes are burnt."

Steve glowers at the plate like it's personally offended him, before turning the look onto Bucky. The kitchen doesn't even brace anymore, they're too used to the bickering by now.

"They're not fucking burnt."

"It's not my job to tell them that, it's my job to come back here and get it redone," Bucky shoots back, tired and irritated. They've been particularly nasty to each other this service, both clearly suffering but neither willing to pull their head out of their ass and fix things. "Just do it."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Maybe if you just did your job I wouldn't have to."

"You fucking-"

"Enough!"

The kitchen does fall into stunned silence then, all eyes turning to look at _Pietro_ , of all people. The kid has never even raised his voice before, especially not to Steve, but he walks into the situation with a confidence none of them knew he possessed.

Except Barton, perhaps, who's watching him with the most ridiculous heart eyes from behind a mountain of dishes.

"This is stupid," he grabs the do-over plate from the pass, removing it from reach before it can be thrown at anyone's head. "You're both being assholes."

"Fuck you," Steve spits, more surprised than anything. Especially when Pietro comes right back at him.

"No, fuck you, Chef. You're bringing the whole kitchen down and it's stupid as fuck."

"He's right," Peggy chimes in, having recovered from her surprise enough to step into the fray as well. Angie and Barton may well exchange high-fives from beside the sink, everyone's too busy watching the drama unfold to notice. "You're both being wilfully obtuse idiots and we're all sick of it. Talk to each other like human beings and knock it off."

There's a beat of silence before Steve and Bucky both start talking over each other at once.

"He's the one who's being-"

"I'm not gonna talk to him-"

"That's it," with her most authoritative glare, she takes Steve by the arm and frogmarches him towards the walk-in freezer, Bucky trailing along behind because Pietro's stare says he'll be getting the same treatment if he doesn't comply.

Peggy shoves a spluttering Steve into the freezer, chivvying Bucky in behind him when he doesn't immediately follow. They both stare at her in confusion, too bewildered to think of moving from where they're practically on top of each other in the small space.

"You have five minutes," she informs them, in a tone which suggests there will be no arguing. Bucky wisely bites back a comment about Angie enjoying that, because he doesn't want to find out if Peggy can actually murder him with her bare hands today. "Take turns talking. No sex. Get your shit together."

"But-" Steve tries to object, because he's never known when to back down from a fight, but a withering look shuts him up fast.

" _Talk to each other_ ," she breathes out an irritable sigh through her nose when they look at her like she's an alien. A pair of absolute disasters. "Here's a question to get you started: what do you want? Get on with it."

"What if we have to huddle together for warmth?" Bucky tries valiantly to summon a weak quip from somewhere, which only earns him the dirty look treatment.

"Six minutes. Go."

She smiles sweetly and shuts the door, leaving them alone in the freezing semi-darkness.

"Well," Bucky breaks the silence with a puff of equal parts condensation and trepidation.

"Shit," Steve agrees, hugging his arms around himself against the cold. Bucky notices that he's already begun to shiver and reluctantly decides he should probably try and get this conversation moving - if they want to get out of here within the next week, at least.

"You want my jacket?"

"Don't be nice," Steve gripes, but grudgingly takes it when Bucky hands it over anyway. He's skinny, it's not his fault he doesn't retain heat well. "I've been an asshole to you, I don't deserve nice."

"Your self-esteem is a black hole, I swear to god," Bucky sighs and leans back against one of the shelves, straightening up quickly when he realises his mistake as freezing metal bites through his shirt. "But you have been an asshole."

"So have you," Steve points out, shoving his hands in the too-big jacket pockets and definitely not thinking about how nice Bucky's lingering body heat feels. "You said I was-"

"Steve, you went on that date already convinced that I wasn't being honest with you for some reason," Bucky sounds tired rather than annoyed, which puts the breaks on Steve's indignation somewhat. "Look, what do you want? Because there's something here, but fuck me if I know what it is. I told you I like you, but you're not into it. Do you just wanna hook up, is that it?"

"No," he says it too quickly, which makes him cringe and Bucky raise his eyebrows in surprise. "I… I liked the game, y'know? The flirting and the… It felt good, I didn't want it to stop."

"Why would it stop?" Bucky's voice softens, like Steve's some animal he's trying not to spook instead of a guy who's been a complete douche to him over the last few weeks, and Steve finds it hard to understand why. But maybe that's the problem.

"I figured if we got together then we'd hook up and… you wouldn't want to… be us anymore," getting this out is like pulling teeth, because Steve is _not_ a person who's very in touch with his feelings, and he can't be doing a great job because Bucky looks as confused as ever.

"Do you _not_ want to hook up?" He feels it out, cautious and confused but trying to be sensitive. "I'm cool with that, y'know. I'm not as much of a slut as everyone seems to think, I've had an ace boyfriend before."

"That's not…" Steve shakes his head vehemently. "I do want to hook up, I just… I'm afraid that if we fuck you'll realise I'm not what you want, and you won't want anything to do with me anymore. So... I guess I tried to put you off before that happened."

He hears what it sounds like as soon as it comes out of his mouth, and he rushes to explain before he can give off the wrong impression and ruin things _again_ when they're finally getting somewhere.

"I don't mean you'd just pump and dump-"

" _Pump and dump_?" Bucky repeats incredulously, and the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth makes Steve have to fight giving one back. It's an unexpected moment of levity in a situation which badly needs it, and somehow it shifts the tone back to where it should be.

It's a stupid way to get back to feeling like them, but it works.

"You know what I mean!" He rubs a hand over his freezing face and tries to be clear. "I don't want us to be a one off, but I figured once you slept with me you wouldn't… want me anymore. 'Cause I'm _me_."

Bucky just stares at him in the low light for a moment, long enough that Steve feels see-through and itchy and almost starts to say something sarcastic to break the tension. That is, until Bucky suddenly takes his face in his hands and kisses him so hard Steve sees stars.

"You're a dumbass," he says when they break apart, stroking his thumb over a blindsided Steve's cheek. Steve doesn't think he's ever been insulted with such affection before.

"Uh… thanks?" He frowns, hands flexing compulsively where he's holding onto Bucky's waist like he's a life raft.

"You're so busy hating yourself you don't realise that you're _hot_ and people might actually want to be with you," Bucky shakes his head and kisses him again, and Steve is very confused but he doesn't hate the way this is going. "I told you I like you already, will you just let me prove it without trying to fuck it up?"

"I didn't do it on _purpose_ ," Steve gripes, still managing to be pissy despite the fact he's actually in Bucky's arms and his brain has kind of shorted out on what to do about that. "Not consciously…"

"Hello, Steve's brain?" Bucky taps his forehead and isn't the least bit deterred by Steve's resulting scowl. "Can you fuck off and let me love him? Thanks."

"You're the dumbass," Steve would blush harder if he wasn't so cold. Bucky goes to say something snarky back, but stops in his tracks as a shit-eating grin spreads over his face.

Uh oh.

"Wait, if you're worried about me not wanting anything to do with you after we fuck-"

"I didn't-"

"That means you _like_ me. I knew it."

"That's not what I said!"

"You like this ass so much you're afraid it'd _pain you_ for it to be a one off!"

"I didn't-"

"Who could blame you, Steve? It's a great ass. But guess what? It wouldn't be a one off, you dumb fuck."

"This isn't your best flirting," Steve lets himself be pushed back against a stack of boxes anyway, pinned tightly between Bucky's heat and cold cardboard as he swallows hard. "I can't believe you're making fun of me for _liking_ you when you've been showing your ass for months."

"You _like_ me," Bucky repeats as he presses closer, tone low with an intent which makes Steve's voice crack.

"Peggy said no sex," he points out, not that he's objecting much. "That's a sex voice."

"Is it working?"

"It's working."

"Your six minutes are up!" Peggy yanks the door open and looks them both over, eyebrows raising when she gets a look at their position, along with Steve's pink face and… everywhere else his blood has gone. "And so's Steve. Should I give you a minute?"

Bucky relinquishes Steve and breezes out past her, triumphant grin plastered across his face. Steve might have to adjust himself to save whatever's left of his dignity, ignoring Peggy's smirk as he stumbles back into the kitchen.

"The freezer would help with that, y'know."

"Fuck you, Carter," he grunts, slamming the door shut behind him and summoning his pissiest glare for the peanut gallery who are currently watching him and Bucky with very smug looks. "Alright you assholes, show's over. Get back to work or you're all fucking fired."

"Uh, Chef?" Bucky looks so _fond_ of him, when Steve glances over, that he doesn't know what the hell to do with himself. His brain is still trying to tell him that letting Bucky in is only going to hurt him in the long run… but maybe his brain can fuck off for a change. "I kinda need my jacket."

"Oh," blushing furiously, because he forgot he was wearing Bucky's stupid black jacket over his chef's whites in a disgustingly boyfriendly fashion, Steve hurriedly shrugs out of it and hands it over. His reputation is _ruined_ … and he doesn't entirely hate that.

Bucky takes the jacket back and, in a way which isn't at all triumphant or mocking, kisses him on the cheek before he heads back to the dining room.

"I love my dads," Pietro stage-whispers into the ensuing silence.

Much to everyone's surprise, Steve is the first to respond with a genuine laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> There's more to come soon. Let me know what you thought!


End file.
